Growing up, I always thought of my Grandfather as the most fun (and definitely my favorite) family member. Which is saying a lot since I grew up with dozens of cousins and second cousins who were in and out of our house constantly. I was never in want of needing someone to play with as the house was always full of noise and laughter. One of my favorite memories of my grandfather was the day he took me to the movies and then to pizza afterwards. It was unusual to have my grandfather all to myself, but I wasn’t one to question having one-on-one time with him. That was the last time I ever saw my grandfather.
Three days later he was dead. Being ten, no one told me anything other than he had died, was now peaceful and was no longer in pain. Peaceful? In pain? The thought he was ever not peaceful and was in pain to a certain degree was news to me, but I was too devastated to question what my parents were telling me. All I knew was that he wasn’t here when I needed him most. Throughout the days leading up to the funeral, our house became a procession of mourners and comfort food though I don’t remember much of what happened or who was there. It wasn’t until years later that I found out my Grandfather dealt with depression and had actually committed suicide that summer.